Sentiment
by TheMuseHasSecrets
Summary: "There wasn't a pulse, but John could swear that he could see the body breathing. " It had been a whole three years, but it still seemed like yesterday. Sherlock had jumped. John had been forced to watch. Despite the time passing, it still hurt him as if it happened yesterday. How could Sherlock just leave him like that?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"No... Don't..." John blinked uselessly as the threat of tears became reality, "SHERLOCK!"

He was a rag doll, all limbs and coat. He was falling quickly. John was immobilized; by the time he started running it was too late. The crowd was forming around the body as he pushed through. Blood was pooling everywhere.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through... Let me come through please. He's my friend. He's my friend, please." John pleaded. The words sounded foreign.

Hands were pulling him away as he tried to take the body's pulse. There wasn't a pulse, but John could swear that he could see the body breathing.

The alarm went off abruptly, and John woke in a start. He could hear his own pulse, a dull thunder. It was a dream. The same dream he had been having at least twice a week since that fateful day. Cold sweat clung to his body, soaking through his shirt slightly. He could feel the tears on his cheeks. Some days he could get up and try to carry on as if he hadn't watched his best friend kill himself. On other days it was hard to get out of bed. On these days the flat had an empty air, as if the building itself had been sad and lonely. Today was an empty-air day. He wondered why he couldn't just leave. For months John couldn't go near Baker Street but eventually he felt as if he were dying without it.

_If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do, sentiment._

Somehow small things Sherlock had said to John seemed constantly applicable to his situations. Yes, he came back due to sentiment. It broke John's heart to walk in the door and not hear Sherlock playing the violin, or watching bad television. Somehow he missed the things that irritated him to no end before- body parts in the fridge, and chemistry sets on every surface. Every bit of the apartment hurt John and reminded him how alone he was now. However Sherlock left him. He kept the flat. Sentiment.

Eventually John's heart returned to a normal pace. He could breathe without having a tight chest. Slowly, he got up out of bed and reached for his cane. The goddamn cane returned when Sherlock left. His limp made life hard with a room on the top floor, but that wasn't why John hated it. The cane was a constant reminder that he was no longer whole. Sherlock had come, showed him a whole new life, and then took it all away. Standing in front of his mirror, John did an assessment of himself. He tried to deduce his own life story out of what he saw in the mirror.

John walked with a cane, but had no signs of a leg injury while standing. A psychosomatic limp, which meant there was some kind of trauma in his past. Most likely violence if you looked at the rigid way he stood. He had a military posture- shoulders back, look forward, and standing straight. So he was in some kind of army service. There were bags under his eyes, and his clothes were all at least one size too big. Lack of sleep and appetite were both signs of grief and mourning. He had lost someone he cared about recently. Although he obviously cared about how he looked, his clothes were all second-hand and over a year old. If he couldn't afford new clothes how could he afford his own flat? There were people who either cared enough or felt guilty enough to ensure he had a comfortable life. Mrs. Hudson cared enough to lower the rent, Mycroft felt guilty enough to pay it.

John shook his head, knowing he would never be able to compare to Sherlock. He wasn't sure he wanted to. He made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. Even though it was hard for him to get up and down them so often he couldn't move into Sherlock's old room. There was something wrong with sleeping in his bed and moving all of the clothes and furniture. Sherlock always liked his room to be a certain way. Now it housed the belongings that Mrs. Hudson had packed up, mostly science equipment. The flat still looked similar to before. There was less clutter and it smelled better, but all the furniture was in the same place. Sherlock's chair remained unused and blanketed in dust.

The mornings had started becoming routine. Coffee was the first thing every morning, half a pot and as strong as John could make it. After coffee, the rest of the day would go okay. Not good, but not as bad as the mornings could be. There wouldn't be any bad dreams and he would be too busy to think of Sherlock. He would go to work at the clinic, make people better, and come back in the evening. The nights may be bad, but the days would be okay. All John needed to do was stay busy and away from the flat.

While the coffee brewed he limped up the stairs to get dressed. As he looked through his clothes, he accidently touched an old sweater. Even though John didn't look at it, he knew which it was. A light brown, almost off-white colour. Thick cable knit. He wore it often when Sherlock was around. Quickly he moved on to another drawer and got on a pair of jeans, a light blue button down shirt, and socks. Right now wasn't the time to get sentimental. That plan wasn't working, as he went back downstairs he couldn't help but remember mornings with Sherlock. Even if he was there, he never made coffee in the morning.

After John poured his own, he took down another mug and put sugar in it. He realized what he was doing just before pouring the coffee. Instead of breaking down in tears, he threw the mug across the room and watched it smash into a thousand pieces against the wall. It was justified. Anger is easier to deal with than sadness.

He left the flat without drinking his own coffee. The walls seemed to close in on him; all he could remember was Sherlock. His violin compositions. His nicotine patches. The way he was always right. He didn't care about people and saw it as an advantage. Everyone else he knew romanticized Sherlock. All too often John heard "What a brilliant man," or "It's a shame he was so misunderstood". It took all he had to hold back from correcting the silly little people that never knew Sherlock.

"He was smart, but an idiot. He was completely understood. He always made himself clear." John muttered to himself angrily as he buttoned up his jacket and called a cab. "I'll be damned if even his ghost is welcome in my flat after what he did."


	2. Chapter 2

Returned to London.

SH

It was the first text Sherlock had sent Mycroft in months. It wasn't intended to bring about a conversation or restore their relationship; Sherlock simply thought the information was in his brother's interests. After he had 'died', Sherlock relied on Mycroft's help heavily. Soon after, he started running his life his own way. Mycroft ended up almost cutting him off, only giving him enough attention to ensure that Sherlock didn't make too much trouble. However, there was no one to stay with Sherlock and make sure he stayed safe. Eventually he became a time bomb and Mycroft didn't want to be affected by his shrapnel when he finally burst. Watching Sherlock ended up falling to other government personnel. However, when this text was received, it was most definitely in Mycroft's interests to talk to his little brother.

During his time with John, Sherlock had started to get himself somewhat together. He had someone to make him eat and sleep, remind him that these things needed doing. John had been his reason for trying to be human, even if Sherlock saw it as a weakness. Once he left all those things stopped. Before, he tried to sleep. Even if it may not have been enough for most people, he would try to sleep every night. He couldn't remember the last time he slept. Sherlock stopped eating as well. Not on purpose, he simply forgot about hunger without John to remind him. Although before he was slender, now he was almost skeletal.

During his time away, Sherlock had fallen into a spiral of boredom and depression. He realized that he had friends in his last moments of life. Before his incident with Moriarty, he had never realized the power these small people had over his own life. Yes, he knew John cared about him. Mrs. Hudson had always looked after him, and made sure that he was well-looked after. Detective Inspector Lestrade never allowed the police force to take control or go against Sherlock. Even when they did, Lestrade ensured that there would always be a warning. But these people were his friends. They were not simply random people in his life, but people that he lived and would die for. When Sherlock realized the impact they had on him, he barely had a minute to process the information. Sherlock Holmes, the detective who was infamous for his lacking of social skills, had real friends. So he had to leave them. This followed him wherever he went.

Of course, he needed something to dull the pain. The days had become exceedingly tedious; he was not allowed to solve any cases that may bring about media attention. All Sherlock could do was stay low and remember how his life used to be, all that he had lost. Naturally, he needed something in his life to help him forget, something to keep him from being bored. To most people this would mean a hobby or perhaps a particularly thrilling movie or book. To Sherlock, it meant a new vice or two to keep him company while he was finding his way around the world, waiting until the time was right to return.

The cigarettes came first, they usually did. In fact, once he left London the first thing he did off the plane was buy a package of cigarettes. They were something that had been more of a comfort than anything. When he was in mourning over Addler, he smoked. When he was bored between cases, he smoked. It only seemed fitting that he would while he was both in mourning and bored. They were not a huge problem in Sherlock's life though. Most adults had the occasional cigarette. Unfortunately, there was a stronger vice that rose from his past.

The drugs weren't intended to become a regular occurrence in Sherlock's life again. One night he felt particularly lonely, and exceedingly bored. He was brought back to the memories of his life- his old life. Soon enough, he was out looking for cocaine. Well, he didn't really look. Sherlock knew exactly where to go, who to ask, and what to say. It wasn't hard for the average person to find drugs, it was easier than anything for Sherlock. A one-time high turned into a regular part of his life. It was an outlet, something to keep his mind away from what he was and what he turned into. They made Sherlock feel alive for the first time since he had jumped off that roof. Once Mycroft discovered what his little brother was doing, all communication was stopped. Sherlock was completely alone; it just made his dependence worse. For months he barely lived his life, chain smoking cigarettes and shooting up.

Something told Sherlock he had to leave. It was time, he needed John back. The loss of his own life was starting to show Sherlock how important the man was to him. John had been his reason to give up everything. John had been what inspired him to be a better person and to look after himself. John had been his life, and Sherlock simply couldn't survive without him. It was unbelievable that it had taken so long for him to realize that. Perhaps he had become so self-centered that he only looked at himself and his wants in each moment. Regardless of the reasons, he had to return to London, and to John.

After this epiphany he looked at himself in the mirror. The life he had been living made a visible impact on him. His cheekbones seemed higher, more pronounced. This was probably due to his hollowed face. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it to inspect his bare torso. Even though the bones throughout his torso were slightly outlined before he had left 221b, now they were obvious. His ribs created gentle hills and valleys down his sides, his spine now more like a small mountain range. There were small scars concentrated around his elbows. They were carefully planned and executed, designed to make a minimum amount of marking. Simply because he had started doing drugs didn't mean the world had to see the evidence. Sherlock's eyes, once full of life, were now a dull, clear grey-blue. In short, Sherlock looked lifeless. He was a zombie.

It took three days after his self-analysis for Sherlock to start his travel back to London. He was one of the few people who could break a drug addiction due to pure willpower. Several pieces of furniture had been sacrificed for the cause, and his tv had a gunshot wound or two, but after three days in his apartment he felt as if he was okay to travel. He convinced himself that drugs had simply been a distraction from boredom and loneliness. Now he was no longer bored, and soon he would't be lonely any more. As he left the fourth flat he'd lived in since 221b, he couldn't help but remember how he saw himself in the mirror. It had reminded him of something a friend once said to him.

_You look sad. When you think he can't see you._

Maybe she was right. Sherlock definitely thought the man in the mirror looked sad.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John Watson usually left his home at approximately eight in the morning, every morning. Sometimes he looked exceedingly stressed and dishevelled, as if he had been kept up all night or just didn't sleep well. There were permanent bags under his eyes and a slight tremor in his left hand. He walked with a limp and cane again. Obvious mental distress, possibly depression mixed with post traumatic stress disorder. From his home at 221b Baker St- strange for him to still be living there since he was still in mourning- he would take a taxi to the hospital. He was holding on to the past, probably hoping for someone from his past to return. Usually he would work there for eight hours without leaving. Once or twice a week he would leave for a break with Stamford. So Stamford was worried about John and wanted to distract him. John no longer went on the dates he had while living with Sherlock, in fact after work John didn't leave his home at all.

So, John was depressed. He often didn't sleep despite not going out at night. He was having nightmares again. His friends were concerned about him; could he be falling on a substance as well? Perhaps alcohol? No, that wasn't like John. Sherlock stirred sugar his coffee and took another peek at St Barts. For the past week he had been following John, trying to determine the best way to reveal himself. Watching him had only revealed that there wouldn't be a best way. John had taken it much harder than Sherlock had expected.

"I've been keeping an eye on him." A familiar voice appeared behind Sherlock. He sounded irritated, like the father of a child who refused to say thank-you. Sherlock took a glance at Mycroft, and then quickly returned to watching the building across the street. He was wearing a new suit, crisp black and white with shined leather shoes. Perhaps he had an appointment with the Queen earlier. It was all very clean and professional looking. Dress to impress seemed to be his motto. Mycroft looked tired though, he had new worry lines. So he had been stressed as well.

"Gaining or losing?" As usual, Sherlock seemed uninterested. Of course Mycroft was looking after John, he felt guilty. It was Mycroft's fault that this situation had happened. He was guilty enough to look about nine pounds heavier than they last met.

Mycroft sat across from Sherlock and leaned back. "Of course, you blame me for this mess. Your fall from grace was your own fault Sherlock. You do realize that it would be hard enough to ensure your safety if you had been responsible and stayed safe. You shouldn't have returned," he followed Sherlock's gaze to a window on the second floor. There was the silhouette of a short man with a cane, talking to a woman. "I've said it before. Caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag from it. Taking his time, he relaxed his lungs, slowly exhaling. "It is not the job of the entire British government to ensure my safety." He avoided the subject of John. He was angry at Mycroft still. It had been his fault that Moriarty had been able to go through with his plans, which had resulted in Sherlock having to spend three years in near isolation.

Mycroft clenched his fists, trying to retain some sort of control over himself. "No. It is the job of the entire British government to ensure the safety of its residents. What happened between you and Moriarty threatened the safety of three others as well as yourself. As well as the credibility of Scotland Yard. Besides, we needed to ensure the press didn't get anything more to write about. You realize what you did don't you? The one and only Sherlock Holmes, jumping off a building! The same building that had Moriarty, or Richard Brook, dead on the roof. Shot through the head. Have you any idea what that looked like? Well, just in case your brilliant mind couldn't figure it out, it looked like a murder or forced suicide. Either way the media-" By the time Sherlock interrupted him, he was almost shouting.

"I don't give a shit about the media Mycroft. Why does it matter what people think, it's not as if people often change preconceived opinions." Sherlock interjected.

"Yes, the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, the genius Sherlock Holmes, the cold, calculating Sherlock Holmes who doesn't care what the world thinks about him, or about the consequences of his actions. Did you ever stop to consider what your actions would bring on the three people that care most about you? Did you ever stop to think about the mess that you would leave for me to clean up? How many resources and favors I had to use up to get everyone to basically forget you? Of course not. You hid away in your own little world, without so much as a thank-you or any regards for the effort put into hiding you. Then you have the audacity to return here- without consulting me of course- and tell me when you arrived? After almost four months without any communication whatsoever? I assure you, I know you don't care about the opinions of others." He was red in the face and slightly out of breath, hoping he had gotten through to Sherlock.

Sherlock sipped his coffee. "Well, it blew over. John needs me- you can see it too. From the beginning you knew that, it's the reason you stayed to cushion the blow of my death. We both know that I'm going to go see him and you're not going to be able to stop it." He replied stubbornly, still watching the hospital.

It would be wrong to think of any other response from Sherlock. Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "I know." He watched as John walked out of the hospital and got in a cab.

Without another word Sherlock stood, finishing his cigarette and dropping the butt in the half full cup of coffee. He turned on his heel and walked purposefully away from the table. Mycroft could surely pay for the coffee after subjecting Sherlock to that lecture. As Sherlock walked away, Mycroft was at a loss for words. Sherlock all too often acted like a child, but he had hoped that one day he would be able to realize that life wasn't a game or a puzzle to be finished. Despite his intelligence, Sherlock was unable to think of how his actions affected those around him. This was something that most teenagers could comprehend but somehow it never got through to Sherlock.

221b Baker St. Sherlock lit another cigarette and stared at the door. He had come and gone through that door there more times than he could count. It was his home for years. He could walk through it with his eyes closed and not touch a thing. He knew which stairs creaked, how many floorboards there were, which areas of the house were starting to deteriorate from age. Yet somehow he never felt more out of place. He had dreamed of returning home since he'd left. He'd watched John come and go for a week but that hadn't brought back the same memories as standing on the door step, about to knock and hope for the best.

Heart racing he took a long, deep drag from his cigarette; it was enough to burn almost half of it. Looking through the cloud of smoke he exhaled he prepared himself for whatever John's reaction may be. A thought popped into his mind- what if John couldn't recognize him? Yes, he didn't look much better than some corpses but he was still breathing. He still wore the same coat and scarf, had the same hair. Perhaps he was a bit worse for wear but logical thinking could override the emotional responses. John would know it was him. Sherlock took one step towards the door. He held his cigarette between his lips and knocked three times, loudly and confidently. This was it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Slowly, John made his way up the stairs. He could remember a time where he got up them easily. It was so much simpler and easier when Sherlock was there. Had he no idea what he'd done to John? Yes, Sherlock could be oblivious to human reactions and feelings, but there was no way that he could ignore how important he was. John thought he had been important to Sherlock as well, but that was true how could he have jumped right in front of John's eyes? Was there something that he could have done to stop Sherlock jumping?

It was no secret to those around him that he blamed himself for Sherlock's death. His therapist had jumped to that conclusion almost immediately. Of course, it was fairly generic for a close friend or last contact to blame themselves after a death. Sherlock would be so very impressed with John's overwhelmingly unexceptional grieving process. Simply, John went through the stages of grief. He stopped eating and sleeping as well and returned to the areas where he thought of Sherlock. He was mad and sad often. The anger seemed to stay longer than it did with most people though. It was odd, wishing that Sherlock had returned but at the same time wishing the idiot hadn't graced his life. John didn't mean that of course. He just couldn't understand.

On this particular day, the anger was outweighing the sadness and depression. He'd spoken to Molly a fair bit; she didn't seem to be affected as much. She'd seemed to move on, there were always more bodies to play with and more books to read. There was a new boyfriend in her life, they were going out that night. Sherlock would have said something about that, making some smartass comment about her dating Moriarty. John suspected that she was having a hard time as well, even though it had been three years. It infuriated him that she didn't show it. Not to mention he'd only had difficult patients through the day. In the waiting room he'd run into Lestrade as well. Apparently a policeman got shot. While they had been chatting awkwardly, John couldn't help but notice Greg's air of pity towards John. Apparently all of London expected him to jump off a building as well.

When he reached the top of the stairs he went straight to the kitchen, putting on the kettle for tea. The apartment was silent except for the chair groaning as he fell into it. Even the noises of the city, cars, trains, people, were silent inside 221b, as if it was the calm before a storm. If John had ever felt lonelier or more frustrated that the he was the only person alone in the world, he couldn't remember it. His fists were tight as he tried to breathe and count his blessings. He could only think of two; that he didn't have to go out or see anyone that night, and that soon he would have some tea.

At that very moment, there were three knocks at the door. Three short, firm knocks resonated through the apartment. Sighing loudly, John shook his head. Perhaps whoever this person was would think he wasn't at his apartment. Maybe they would get the idea that John didn't want to see them one bit. Possibly they would realize that they had gone to the wrong house and didn't want to see a middle aged man depressed about the death of his friend years ago. Unfortunately, none of these things happened. There were three more decisive knocks on the door as John stood.

He shook his head as he limped over towards the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane. The stairs creaked loudly as he descended them. If this was some door-to-door salesman or someone handing out pamphlets for a religion he'd never even heard of, they'd be in trouble. When someone doesn't answer the door it means they do not want visitors. He'd already started talking when he opened the door, "Listen, whatever you're selling I don't want it. I did not want to be bothe-" John's blood ran cold as he looked at the man at the door, realizing who he resembled. Tall. Thin. Very, very thin. Almost looking like a drug addict or someone suffering from an eating disorder. His face was gaunt, a young man who'd aged quickly. A cigarette dangling from his lips. This man looked like Sherlock's ghost.

Slamming the door, John closed his eyes and breathed heavily. This had stopped. Yes, after Sherlock's death he had thought he'd seen Sherlock, but the hallucinations hadn't happened in two years. This was different. Sherlock had always looked as he had when he was living with John. Whatever was on the other side of the door looked as if he was a skeleton deprived of sleep. There was also a cigarette- John never thought of Sherlock with a cigarette. The man was always either stoic and strong or dead in his dreams. In three years the only time he'd thought of Sherlock smoking was in real memories. A thought popped into his head. Irene Addler... They were so sure that she was dead. Even Sherlock mourned her in his own little way. She was smart, but she was no Sherlock...

Outside the door, Sherlock waited. Although he'd been watching John he hadn't quite seen him this close. He looked even older than he did from afar. His eyes had lost their shine, he had bags under his eyes. Little to no sleep, possible nightmares. John had nightmares now and then before and often looked somewhat like he did now in the mornings. The shoes were still the same, as were his jeans and his shirt was approximately two and a half years old. They were all clean, shirt was pressed and the jeans had no wrinkles or creases. Keeping up appearances but not planning for the future. It looked like John had been thinking of his own exit recently.

The door opened suddenly, John's face contorted into a mask of rage. His cane was on the floor behind him as he stepped forward, using his momentum to punch Sherlock square in the nose. For once he was caught off guard, falling down the stairs onto his back. There was blood running down his face, the doctor in John suspected a broken nose. However, he continued to hit Sherlock, straddling his chest and throwing a strong with his right hand. Grabbing the collar of Sherlock's coat and jerking his upper body up, John forced him to look into his eyes.

"How dare you fucking lie to me? How dare you leave for three years, forcing me to think of EVERY FUCKING DAY? Then have the audacity to return here? Do you realize what you did? Do you even care? No of course not, you don't care about anyone do you? All of us are just pawns in your game." John screamed, not realizing the tears streaming down his face. "Everyone- Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, your own brother... We all thought you were dead. You have no idea do you? To think... I thought you cared about those who call you a friend. Well don't worry about having the weakness of caring any more. You might as well go back to being dead, we don't need you any more." John broke down, sobbing in the middle of the street still sitting on Sherlock.

"Not Molly and Mycroft..." Sherlock muttered quietly. He wince, even if John wasn't big, he had power behind that fist. "I can explain, just let me up please."

Without saying another word, John stood and walked back to the apartment, fuming. He slammed the door behind him and walked up the stairs, his cane still lying in the foyer. _Not Molly and Mycroft. _How could they know? John always thought that Sherlock had trusted him more than anyone else. He could see now that it wasn't true. Still, there was that small voice in the back of his head, saying that Sherlock always had a plan. Sherlock could explain what he did.

Sitting in the street, Sherlock tried to assess what had just happened. John needed him, so he came back. Yet John was still mad. It would blow over, it always did. If he could just have a chance then maybe he could explain what happened. Everything that was done had to happen, otherwise Moriarty would have won. As Sherlock stood to dust off his jacket, the door opened.

"You have ten minutes. Starting now." John said to him, jaw clenched.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock cupped his hand under his chin, trying to catch the blood falling from his nose."Aren't you going to want your cane?" Sherlock called up to John, who was already at the top of the stairs. He picked it up and smiled to himself, not expecting a response.

He felt both at home and uncomfortable at the same time. It was as if he had visited his home town after many years and saw all of the places from his childhood; first kiss, that fight with Mycroft when he was six, his old school; but at the same time it had all changed almost beyond recognition. All of the same streets would stay, but there would be new graffiti, renovations on houses, and new stores and restaurants. Despite the furniture staying the same 221b felt completely different.

The first thing that Sherlock noticed was his chair. He figured that John would have kept it but not that he would have kept it in plain sight. Everything else that had belonged to Sherlock had probably been hidden away, possibly upstairs, but more likely John had barricaded Sherlock's old room to try and keep away memories. Since the chair was still there John wouldn't have thrown them away. The chair was, however, covered in dust. It hadn't been touched in a very long time, although the rest of the house was spotless. So he didn't want to get rid of it, but he couldn't stand to use it either.

The rest of the apartment was spotless. John had obviously been trying to keep himself busy as much as possible. As Sherlock surveyed the room he noticed how everything had straight lines, there was absolutely no mess in the room. There were no piles of books or papers like there had been before. Anything put down was perfectly perpendicular to the nearest straight edge. All of the wood was dusted and gleaming, all of the windows cleaned daily. Sherlock would bet that the fridge was more organized than it'd ever been. It looked as if John had developed some obsessive-compulsive habits or had been avoiding the opportunity to sit down with nothing to do.

If John had been trying to avoid time just by himself it just made his depression seem worse. It almost broke Sherlock's heart. Although he knew that by leaving he would hurt John, this was the first time he had ever seen evidence of someone who was truly heartbroken. Sherlock walked over to his chair and sat heavily as a cloud of dust came up around him. He twirled the cane with his left hand as he watched John, who was in the kitchen. Throwing a wet cloth at Sherlock to clean the blood off his face with, John made tea. Despite his anger, John was still one of the most caring, polite men that Sherlock had ever met. The kitchen was full of sounds of mugs slamming against the kitchen and John angrily boiling water.

"Nine minutes now. Are you going to tell me what happened?" John asked when he was done, trying to restrain himself slightly as he put Sherlock's mug on the end table beside him and sat in his own chair, glaring at the detective.

"It was Moriarty."

"Believe it or not Sherlock, I do know that it had something to do with him. You may think I'm an idiot but I can piece together events!" John had half a mind to throw Sherlock out now. He had forgotten what a prick he could be.

"Okay. Then tell me what happened." He sipped his tea calmly. Eight and a half minutes.

"Goddamit Sherlock! I don't know! I watched my best friend jump off a fucking building! Then one day he shows up out of the blue, apparently not dead and expecting things to be the same as always!"

"John, please take this in the least offensive way possible. Shut up and drink your tea. At the moment you're highly emotional and I wouldn't be surprised if you were in shock. It will be much easier for you to accept this if you can just calm down and think logically."

Somehow Sherlock's low voice was reassuring. "Fine." John said through clenched teeth. Taking a deep breath and swallowing a large mouthful of tea, he tried to get in the mindset to listen and at least give Sherlock a chance. "Tell me what happened."

"Moriarty gave me an ultimatum. Finish his story of Sherlock Holmes being a fake and killing himself a disgrace, or he would kill the only people who mean anything to me. My own life or three others. He had three snipers ready to shoot unless he called them off. Once he realized I could get him to call them off, he put a bullet in his own brain so that I had no choice. No, you didn't hear about that. Despite his faults Mycroft is excellent at hiding things that the public should not know. I'm sure he's clearing my name as well if he hasn't already. God knows I left enough evidence for him to do that. Care to guess who the targets were? Although I'm sure you're already at least part way there the lives I saved were yours, Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. " Sherlock took a deep breath and looked away. It hurt to think about how he left John without a reason.

Sherlock had a tendency to plow through information that always amazed John. He could explain situations and force people to understand things in such an artful way. Even if he was still mad John believed Sherlock. It made sense. Those were the kind of games that Moriarty would play, the stakes that he would put up. The situation still hurt though. The three years thinking that he hadn't been enough for Sherlock to stay. "You still could have told me. You could have done... I don't know! Something! The past three years were... torture."

"Although Moriarty was gone the people working for him were not. They still had orders. We've been looking for them but it still isn't completely safe. I wasn't supposed to come back until they were disposed of. Mycroft practically had a heart attack when I told him I was here." Sherlock smiled sadly,"Please believe me when I say that the past few years hasn't been easy for me either. I turned into more of a liability for my brother, to the point where I was cut off for quite a while. The moment I realized that I had friends, people I couldn't live without they were taken away. There had been one thing that Mycroft and I had agreed on for all our lives. Caring about people is more of a nuisance than an advantage."

John saw Sherlock in a different way. The things that he'd noticed instantly started to settle in. He looked at least fourty pounds lighter than he usually was. Although he could have lost that through not eating Sherlock had kept himself alive before John had come alone. The apparent lack of sleep mixed with his dull skin and eyes pointed towards drug use. A relapse had always been in John's mind before the fall, when Addler died, the entire time Moriarty had been toying with them, even sometimes when there weren't any cases. On the few times he'd spoken with Mycroft about it he'd said that it was easy for Sherlock to return to drugs.

Sighing, John stood and walked over to Sherlock. "Let me take a look at your nose. It might be broken." Sherlock took away the cloth that he'd been holding and allowed a brief inspection. The blood had stopped for the most part, and it was still straight enough. Some bruising was already showing up, but other than that he was fine. "It'll be fine. Probably some pretty bad bruises but it's all superficial. You're lucky, I thought I heard a crunch."

"Thanks." He smiled at John. Ten minutes. Sherlock had known that it was more than enough time.

Impulsively, he grabbed John's shirt and pulled him very close before kissing him roughly. For a moment it seemed as if John was about to pull away but started kissing him back. John wound his fingers through Sherlock's hair and pulled him up so they were both standing. Pressed against each other, their heartbeats quickened. They both fought for control, pushing and pulling until John pinned Sherlock against the wall. He bit Sherlock's lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. Suddenly, he realized what was happening. Quickly he stepped back and stared at the ground, breathing heavily.

"Sorry. You... You know where everything is. Make yourself at home. I have to go for a walk." Quickly John grabbed his jacket and left the flat.


End file.
